


Through The Eyes Of A Child

by LWTIS



Category: South Park
Genre: Canon Compliant, Concerns about the yaoi economy, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Gen, Hey look Ma I Wrote Something That Isn't An AU!!!!, M/M, SPSuperZine, Siblings, South Park: The Fractured But Whole, satan in an apron makes an appearance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-15 05:43:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16927542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LWTIS/pseuds/LWTIS
Summary: Behind every successful superhero is a supportive sibling, making sure your lore is updated and your feet were firmly planted on the ground. Or, in other cases, a sibling that kept you humble by summoning Satan into your living room.Featuring four mighty heroes, three very reasonable concerns and one painstaking eight-year plan involving babies.Written for the SP Superzine.





	Through The Eyes Of A Child

\---

“Aaaand - that's done!”

Triumphantly, Kyle raises the improved kite above his head, to the thunderous applause of one small Canadian boy. Above them, the cardboard cloud-cutouts flurry with the sudden motion. “Waterproof, branch-proof and most importantly: more me-from-an-alternate-universe-proof!”

They’d been holed up in the attic for the better part of the day, pushing boxes and painting signs, the makings of an ideal base slowly taking shape around them. During it all, Kyle had picked Ike’s brain continuously - about his costume, the finer details of Human Kite’s backstory, and the practicalities of shooting lasers from one’s eyes versus one’s fingers.  
Idly, Ike wonders if maybe his brother feels just a tiny bit bad about using him as a projectile weapon throughout the whole Stick of Truth campaign.

As if on cue, Kyle’s smile turns a little sly. “Are you sure you don’t want to join in?” he asks with the charm of a used car salesman. “We’d make a good team - you could be the surprise close range fighter.”

“...’Surprise’?”

“Yeah - they see me, the long-range attacker, get overconfident and suddenly - Bam!” Kyle’s fist punches out to illustrate. “Kite Bomb!”

...Or maybe not.

Ike fixes the taller boy with the most unimpressed look he can manage. “No.”

“You could have a Kite Knife…”

_"No!”_

Kyle sighs, lips twisting in disappointment. “Fine, fine.”

Once the kite has been carefully set on top of a box to dry, he reaches for the abandoned piece of paper and his pencil, smoothing it out over his knee.

“Right - the last thing I need is a kryptonite.” he says after a quick glance. “I’m thinking aliens from the other side of the galaxy, covered in spikes and wielding laser-proof shields -”

“That’s not fair.”

The tip of the pencil pauses just above the paper. “How so?”

“You’re not going to fight any aliens.”

“...You don’t _know_ that.”

“Are any of the others playing as aliens?”

His brother’s silence speaks for itself, heavy and a little sullen. Ike rolls his eyes.

“It has to be _real._ ” he declares, voice firm. “Like pee.”

Kyle recoils with such intensity that for a moment, Ike worries for the safety of his neck.

“I am  _not putting that!_ ” he hisses, shuddering with violent disgust. “The last thing I need is to give them ideas! They’ll be - they’ll be pissing in balloons and jars and chucking them at me!”

Ike could concede to that. That sounded like something Kyle’s friends would do.

“What about bananas then?”

“ _No!!_ ” comes the vehement reply, eyes wide with horror. “Nothing that can be bought from the shop! Nothing they can throw at me!”

“...Well there’s only one other thing then.”

In the span of five seconds, he witnesses all stages of grief flashing through his brother’s expression. And then - with slumped shoulders and a defeated sigh - the Human Kite reaches for his character sheet, scrawling _‘Mom’_ into the remaining box.

 

\---

 

The numbers on the cracked display of the microwave spell 3 am when Kevin stumbles into the kitchen, head throbbing with the beginnings of a hangover and stomach screaming for toast. Muffling a yawn into his sleeve, he grabs a plate and two slices of bread before realising he’s not alone.  
Crouched in front of the fridge, basking in its unflattering yellow light, is the poster boy of the local newspaper, the nightmare of petty criminals and aspiring anti-heroes city-wide. The little green question mark atop his head bounces merrily as he chugs his orange juice. Swallowing his impending heart attack, Kevin wrinkles his nose in disgust.

“Really?” he asks, unimpressed. “Straight from the carton? Like an animal?”

The vigilante snaps his head round, akin to a startled possum. A shiny juice moustache clings to his upper lip.

“Time is of the essence.” he rasps.

“There’s a glass right next to you, Ken.”

“Mysterion.” his brother snaps immediately, gaze as pointed as his tone. Kevin raises his hands in surrender.

“Right, right.”

It’s easy to forget that the identity of Mysterion is still a - well, _mystery_ to the majority of the household. A secret from their parents (who regard him with confusion and fear) and most importantly, from their sister (who adores her ‘Guardian Angel’ fiercely). Kevin suspects Kenny would have preferred to keep him in the dark too, had it not been for that unfortunate night when the eldest McCormick literally tripped over Kenny’s body on his way home, comatose and bleeding out.  
He takes a quick inventory - no shaky limbs, no blood smears on the floor, no holes in the makeshift bodysuit. The confirmation makes it just a little easier to breathe.  
Idly, he reaches out to poke at the little plastic question mark, sniggering as it bounces in response. His efforts earn him a grumpy look.  

“Cut it out.”

Naturally, Kevin’s fingers move to flick it again, providing an obnoxious sound effect to accompany it.  

He doesn’t claim to understand the artistic choices behind the costume - the growly voice, the persona itself. But he can understand the motivation - the driving force. The frustrations that build up with every day spent on the shitty side of the tracks, locked between crumbling walls with no escape in sight.  There comes a tipping point - where you either throw yourself into something, or go insane.  
Kevin drank. Threw himself into whatever work was tossed his way. Snarled at his father, emotions uncensored and fists unrestrained. His little brother donned a mask and a catsuit and threw himself at criminals.  
They all had their vices. They all did what they had to do.

He reaches out again, giving Mysterion’s cowl a light tug. “Go get some sleep, champ.”

“I wasn’t done for tonight.” the younger McCormick protests. His eyes are already drooping, jaw trembling with a hidden yawn. “Crime doesn’t sleep.”  

“Yeah, but Guardian Angels do.”

-

When Karen declares her intentions on becoming a vamp kid a week later, Kevin has only one question.

“Will you be wearing your underwear _under_ your clothes?”

“Uh... _yeah_.”

Relief palpable, Kevin ruffles her hair before making a grab for the garage keys. He always suspected Kenny’s stuff from his theatre phase would one day come in handy.

 

\--- 

 

When Tricia grew up, she was going to invest all of her savings into developing cute little guinea-pig-sized collars with trackers in them. They will be cute, trendy, and will finally grant her a peace of mind.    
She entertains this delightful future as she makes her way upstairs, feet sore from searching every inch of the basement. When she shoulders Craig’s door open, she’s greeted by a truly pathetic picture.

“Craig!” she snaps, both hands on her hips. The navy lump on the bed twitches in response. “The playpen is empty again! Where’s Stripe?”

“He’s been torn from me in the vicious throes of the legal battle.”

Tricia blinks. “...What?”

With a sigh, her brother turns his head just enough to face her. His eyes are smudged with dark purple, hounded by exhaustion.

“Tweek has him now.” he explains. His voice is even more lifeless than usual. “He is the one who bought him, so Stripe is _his_ guinea pig. As he has said about five dozen times already.”

That...was not what she had expected.

“...He bought Stripe for _you_.”

Craig shrugs. The paper taped to his chest crinkles loudly with the motion. “He had receipts. It was the price to surrender my laptop.”

The youngest Tucker’s jaw drops. “Since when do you care more about your laptop than your guinea pig?!”

“...It’s the _principle_ of things.”

“What does that even mean?! We’re talking about your _baby!”_

Craig is already rolling back onto his side, tugging all the blankets with him. “Shut up, Tricia.”

Hands raised in outrage, Tricia fixes her brother with her filthiest glare, barely resisting the urge to groan. This was so _stupid_.

Just a few days ago, the two boys had been holed up in Craig’s room together, every spare second of the day spent finalising their backstories, designing and constructing their matching costumes. And now, in just a day, it was all ruined.    
How were they supposed to make a baby if they were _still_ having this fight?  
Tricia had done the math - the baby needed to be born before Christmas this year - or at the very latest, before New Year’s. The holidays meant family gatherings, and lots of hands to help out. She’d have to wait _years_ until the little rascal was old enough to be taught all the fun stuff - riding a bike, climbing trees, spitting cherry pips across the fence and into the drinks of the unsuspecting neighbour.  
In just eight years’ time, Craig and Tweek would be going off to college, and no doubt taking her future nephew and niece along with them. The longer this nonsense dragged on, the less time Tricia was going to have to fit all her plans in.

Not to mention that the boys’ last breakup caused a city-wide upheaval in the yaoi economy. Fluffy and saucy pieces plummeted, and the angst flooded the market, dragging the general mood along with it. (And that was _before_ her dad had converted the dining room into his collector showroom.) They were running out of wall space as it was. Another angst wave would mean having to redecorate, possibly even remodel the house. Frames would need to be taken down. Her dad would be forced to make hard decisions between beloved pieces.  

All of these outcomes were _unacceptable_. There was only one logical solution.

“You need to sort your shit out.” she declares, tone leaving no room for argument. “I’m going to be an awesome aunt, and I am not going to let your _stupid_ mess up my plans!”

 

\---

 

Well.  
This was awkward.

Mintberry Crunch had it all figured out. He would take a little detour back into the dimension that housed Earth. Drop in to good old South Park, unannounced. Make his rounds amongst his friends, his family, his _adoring_ fans. Tell them all about his adventures, the battles he’d been waging against monstrous aliens. Collect the well-earned, much missed compliments and heartfelt gratitude for all his hard work.  
And last but not least, make time for some well-deserved gloating over his fat bitch of a sister. Remind her how supremely _superior_ he was in comparison, once again.

The first part of the plan had gone beautifully. He had landed in their front yard in a perfect cascade of mint and berries. He had found his target lounging in the living room, as grumpy and pathetic as ever. Had delivered his carefully practised speech, hands on hips and stance proud.

Henrietta had taken it in. Raised a ridiculously dark eyebrow. Took a long drag of her cigarette.  
And then, without warning, she stabbed it into the ground with a yell.

Mintberry Crunch isn’t terribly clear on the details that follow. But suddenly, the room dips into cold darkness, the china in the cabinets rattling as the ground shakes. Sharp screams of the undead pierce through the air, their transparent bodies laced with an eerie glow as they circle around the room, almost loud enough to drown out Henrietta’s words.

“Welcome to Hell, twerp.”

There’s a flash of fire, followed by a heavy thud of hooves - and suddenly, a massive red figure is standing next to her, yellow horns brushing the ceiling when he straightens up. There’s a skull on his belt, and his eyes promise _murder.  
_(The fact he has a moderately frilly apron tied around his waist doesn’t make him any less terrifying.)

 And that’s how Bradley Biggle found himself his highly unprecedented situation - cowering in the corner of his living room, with _Satan_ hovering over him.

Which is what made this whole situation so terribly awkward, really.  
Because apparently all it takes is a brief interdimensional trip for your sister to channel her Satanism into developing _actual_ powers.

 With a lazy shake of her wrist, Henrietta drops the crushed cigarette from her pipe to the floor, replacing it with a new one. The tip glows red as she snaps her fingers, eyes gleaming with sadistic delight.

“So.” she drawls. Behind her, Satan raises both of his terribly muscled arms.

“What was that about you calling me a fat bitch?”

 

 

\---

AN:

I wrote this piece for the SP Super Zine back at the end of the summer, and I'm excited to finally get to share it. It was an awesome experience - everyone involved in the project is really talented, and I can't wait for my own copy to arrive!

A little bit of a predictable route for me to go down on, I realise, but it was a lot of fun to write nonetheless. Title is from the [song of the same name](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3j2Xnm-C2y4) from the Bigger, Longer, Uncut movie. Please check out the previews of the other participants [here on the blog](https://spsuperzine.tumblr.com/)! And whilst you're there, [hit me up :)](https://lwtis.tumblr.com/)  


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